I know the difference between a Hawk and a Handsaw
by cdewinter78
Summary: Riley Chapman's brush with the Supernatural world cost him his whole Family and left him in an Asylum. He owes his life to a hunter named Dean Winchester - this year, he's going to convince Dean to take his "gift" back!"


**I KNOW THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A HAWK AND A HANDSAW.**

"I AM BUT MAD North- northwest. When the wind blows from the South I know the difference between a hawk and a handsaw." Hamlet.

Staring out the window – watching the anxious scurrying of the entire world while I am held to ransom by the truth … used to make me feel bitter. It's how I imagine any captive feels ... the guilty ones, the innocent, the _truly_ innocent, the scapegoats and the victims. Unfortunately for me when I finally figure out which category I actually fall into; they break out the **really** **good** meds. Yep life in the Looney bin is one huge contradiction – as I work my way to my "full recovery" I am loosing sight of reality, because the sanity they want to force on me… is a lie. The fantasy world they want me to leave behind will rear its ugly head again – it always does… one night a year it returns to remind me that what lurks in the shadows has very real teeth and claws and … wants me dead.

Dr Rochester is intent on dredging from me every last thread of detail about my family, my world before… All I see are their dead decaying bodies, laying at the bottom of that silt pond my mind created to protect me – and _him. _Our tardy hero – too late to save them, but too damnably early to allow me to join them. He tells me every time I see him, that it was not my fault. He tells me through clenched teeth; as he fights me for control of the homemade blade I smuggled into my room last year. He tells me with tears flowing freely down the hard drawn planes of his face, as he revived me after my near successful attempt at hanging myself with the crisp white linens they allowed me to sleep on in my first year here. He tells me as he holds me tightly against his chest and begs for my forgiveness, as I sob my self hatred out and give-in to exhaustion. As if I don't know the truth – as if I were not present in my own body as the whole gruesome ordeal played out.

But I am jumping the gun – getting ahead of myself. Doc Rochester uses these moments when my mind wanders off, to work on the daily crossword puzzle. He thinks I don't see him flip the pages on his clipboard and change pens from all business Black, to high jinx Red. I have been in the Freelands Institute for almost four years now, and he has overseen my incarceration throughout… who can blame him for getting a little bored? In the first years, with the police crawling all over the triple homicide of the Chapman family and their traumatized surviving son, I was big news – Psychiatric Journal worthy even. But as time passed so did the police's patience and they were certain that the trail to the unknown stranger they were desperate to pin this thing on – and even more desperate for me to snap out of it, and identify for them – was stone, frigid, cold. And they were right, because Hell would become the setting for the Central Park Icecapades, before I gave up Dean Winchester.

Though, the pain in my ass could do me a favor, and give up on me this year – and just let me finish the job!

The good Doctor, the entire New York police department and anyone else waiting with baited breath for Riley Chapman to reclaim his senses and be discharged from Freelands, would have a long wait ahead. I can not leave this place sporting anything other than a body bag – I know that now and deep down, though he blocks me at every turn – so does my self appointed bodyguard. He struggles against what his gut is telling him – he has done from day one. Hero types have that vulnerability – their conscience. But conscience can only up hold the rights of the individual so far. This individual has just remembered something that not even Saint Dean could absolve … something that may make the hunter's only course of action a little more palpable.

Ironically enough my revelation moment came during one of Dr Rochester's standard soul searching sessions. The Doc, a man in his early fifties had hit mid-life spread early on – perhaps his sedentary profession had lent more than a helping hand. From everything I'd witnessed over the past few years – watching him, watch me; crosswords really were his burning passion. No wife, no kids, no pets … I often found myself wondering how Captain Mediocre empathized with his troubled, and often deeply disturbed patients. If he was in fact setting himself up as the poster child for Sanity – I'd take the Crazy any day! But then what the hell do I know – I killed my whole family in cold blood and no-one believes me… how's that for _bloody_ ironic. Mostly the establishment view me as the traumatized victim because of my inability to recall detail, the fact that I'm the last family member standing and what is the most damning "evidence" for them … the unknown stranger, as seen by our nosey neighbor Mrs. Kettle, leaving the scene with a "guilty two step". No really – that is a direct quote from the cops. Lying in a semi catatonic state that night – left me with a fair bit of free time to eavesdrop, I guess, but that just stuck with me.

So apart from the anniversary of their deaths – a one night only, command performance – I have next to no recollection of that night. Oh I remember vague things like running my hands over the kitchen knives, watching the horror alight in my Mother's eyes at close range and then abruptly go out along with all the lights and of course Dean throwing what felt like acid on me and screaming in some foreign language. Disjointed images that have the feel of someone else's memories about them; but together they were enough to petrify me. On occasions when they attempted to wean me off the mood altering pills that suppressed my dreams all these snapshots ran together as if on a loop. But this year … something else happened. Something, if I could have, I would have talked to Dean about. I had a – visitation, I guess. This random guy dressed in a maintenance outfit strolled into my horror movie replay… except it was while I was wide awake, like he was leafing through my jumbled memories. He started talking to me like we were old friends. He didn't say a name, but I'm going to call him Fred. Fred laid out a little jaunt down memory lane for me – but not my memories… my Fathers.

Dad loved to cook – he had about three signature dishes that were edible. It seemed that this tradition started way back when he and Mom first got married and on this occasion he was building up to his two and a half bell Chili. My big sister Tara had been sent off to the babysitter's probably, leaving Dad the _whole _dance floor on which to bust his moves. I still smile as I conjure that image of Dad strutting Jagar style to the fridge to grab more ingredients. However, while he rooted around for the garlic paste an odd looking black cloud seeped in from the window and towards my Father. After a pitifully short struggle, Dad stood up, all traces Mouthy Mick gone. Well to save you the mental images I was not spared – you may guess what came next – right? Fred – matter of factly informs me that my Dad was in fact possessed (the same line Dean Keeps trying to sell me as an alibi for what I did that night) and incidentally … I was conceived on this night. Fred winks and smiles at me sardonically. I fight the deep seated urge to punch his face in, as he tells me it was some of his "_**best work**_". But he goes on to suggest that I share this with my would-be protector and see if it doesn't win him over to my side. Fred tells me to tell Dean about all this, be totally honest with the Hunter – to describe him down to the very last detail. I am about to let this highly narcissistic figment of my imagination **know **that he's not exactly Fabio – but he's gone; and I find myself back in my room, alone.

I clocked from yesterdays Crossword page that today was D-day. May 13th, the day my world ended and I glimpsed what really lives in the dark corners. I lock my eyes on the ceiling as the male orderly comes in with Dr Rochester behind him. I know they have clocked the pattern, that they see a "spike" in my destructive tendencies on this day. Mostly I get the credit for the fallout of Dean's attempts to keep me in the game. I tell him every year that he gets me into trouble and I miss my shows for a whole week – it's the only Thanks I can offer him… he gets it. I am not grateful for his successes every year – I really **do **believe he needs to let me go … but you can't help but admire the tenacity of the man. Besides – he is my only sane visitor. He tells me things now and then, about his terrifying world, his brother Sam – who ran away to Stanford and appears to be cursed with death visions, about his Jarhead Father who seems to have plain run away. Dean is a good guy – and I often feel like telling him to screw the "family business". And then I always remember why he is sitting on the floor of my padded cell, babbling away like a twelve year girl scout while I sit rocking in a corner, usually, begging him to help me take my life. This year will be different – Fred seemed quite confident. God knows why I have all this great faith in Fred – after all he is a devil – if I can believe my own hallucinations … but something in his story struck a cord in me. Dean fought for me – because he sees me as a victim. He thinks that some part of the whatever the heck he believes it was … latched on to me that night and once a year it tries to finish the job it started back then, and take out the _whole _family.

It seems the Doctor has decided to get the drop this year, and have me out for the count early on. I don't put up the struggle he is expecting, as he injects me with the sedative. It will wear off by the time nightfall's – when the memories come flooding back to me in the torrent that threatens to wash me away. They creep up on me slowly in the form of mundane details throughout the day. I recall what my sister was wearing, how much Dad hated it and the petty bickering that ensued over breakfast. A cold lump forms in my chest as I get a small flash of that same dress painted a vivid red – her life blood … spilt by my hands. This is the point that Dean never gets … no matter who was behind the wheel doing the steering … how can I live with those images? The work of my own hands after all.

Tara, my sister, was a voracious reader – she had Shakespeare sharing a shelf with Harry Potter and everything in between …. But her favorite was Billy. Funnily enough her all time favorite was Hamlet – the son called upon to avenge his Fathers death. She had this hideously pretentious poster with quotes from some hack Broadway adaptation she had once gone to see – I liked the one about the "Hawk and the Handsaw" … it was pretty cool. I thought a lot about that play whilst doing my stint here – in fact I had almost read as much as Tara had before I….

My way of keeping her alive or whatever I guess. How pathetic is that?! Oh I am certain that which ever bare assed cherub she is hanging out with currently, is just weeping with pride over the fact that her devil tainted, murdering brother, is working hard to sustain her memory! Hawk and the Handsaw my **ass**! I don't deserve the luxury of wasting away here – alone with their memory and condemned by my own!

"Dude – what the hell is up with this Hawk and Handsaw thing you keep babbling about?"

A familiar deep voice snaps me out of that space between here and there I choose to inhabit. I know who it is but keep my eyes closed for a few moments longer trying to compose my arguments … That's the only thing about the **good** meds – they take away the trauma, but also rob you of time! So the stage was set and I was late for the Curtin. I feel a tentative but firm grasp on both my shoulders, at the same time I smell his particular scent – motor oil and leather.

"Hey, hey Riley? You don't need to keep up with the Jones' is this neighborhood pal – I kind of like visiting the only sane one here."

I smile at his echoing of my own thoughts from earlier and open my eyes not missing his relieved sigh.

"I thought you were spacing out on me for real – instead of that strong silent stuff you pull out for the cute nurses!"

"The orderlies are all guys Dean – Nurse Ratchet at the front desk, is the only Lady on this wing."

The blonde hunter folds his limbs gracefully together as he sinks to the floor, his expression is sour.

"Yeah and that fact is up for debate too! So how come you were taking an early nap?"

I chuckle as I started to flex my hands and shake off the last of the relaxant.

"New nuttier tactic – they head off trouble by disengaging our freewill!!! I figure that it's pretty late – after eight anyways, so they have been topping me up through the day and figure they are out of the woods now. We won't get bothered – Arty the night porter watches Baywatch re-runs back to back and only moves to hit the head."

Dean grins broadly "Ahhh a man of taste and distinction."

I listen politely to Dean recount the first time he introduced Sam to Pamela Anderson – he is, as always chipper and upbeat, trying to distract me from the now slowly revolving pictures in my head. Sharp red images that gouge and slit their way through my thoughts. They leave me breathless as they move faster and more ferociously, knitting together in a scene that is both familiar and fearful. I gasp out loud as I witness my Father fall at my hands – throat slit, defensive cuts crisscrossing his forearms and hands – not defending himself, but vainly trying to protect – them. My Mother and Sister. How am I so strong? Why doesn't he wrestle the blade away and use it on me?!

"Kill me!" I demand ferociously "End this!"

But I know I am not addressing my Father, I am talking to the hunter who has me in a dead lock as I shake and rock on the bed. Before I get to the part where Tara draws my deadly eye by screaming and running, I decide to reason with Dean. This year I have no plan for sweet release – I am counting on Fred's advice. Dean will be on board, once he discovers my damned heritage. How can he ignore that I am just like those things he and his family hunts?

"You usually ask if anything unusual happened while you were away – well this year… I had a visit from a … devil? What you say possessed me – my get out of jail free card!" I laugh hysterically, slightly frightening myself with the first convincing impression of Crazy I had ever uttered.

Dean acts like he's been burned by a fat cigar. He withdraws his touch and stares at me unsure if I am playing him. I am a little – but it's for a good cause.

"What are you talking about kid? You don't believe me when I try and explain what happened to you and your family that night … Visited how?"

"Daydream – don't really know for sure, but Fred showed me some home truths. He showed me that you were right – I saw my parents before I was born, my Father was under the influence of some black smoke that turned his eyes…"

"Ok let's say this was not a run of the mill nightmare – the Demons name is Fred?!!"

He was working out his next move – I could tell he was stalling trying to weigh the options, but it was not his move yet – I still held the field.

"It does not matter what his name is – he didn't possess me – he had a hand in creating me! Do you get it – **I was bred to be evil!** That's why it took me – we are family for Christ sakes!!"

"No Riley – Demons… lie…" Dean's face was stricken and pale. I should have known my guardian Angel would not be so quick to denounce the snake he had been sheltering.

"You want to know the difference between the Hawk and the Handsaw Dean?! The Handsaw is just a tool … the Hawk is a willful predator – I am a killer, you have a job to do here… why don't you get on with it?"

He turned away from me slowly processing what I was saying.

"It doesn't make you evil Sammy … I can …." His voice faltered.

I don't think he even realized his slip. I always had a feeling that he identified something of his brother in me and a small part of me was curious how this parallel between the two of us was drawn, but mostly I was just excited at gaining a chink in his armor. The same steel suit that he used to guard my life – might just be the gateway (once breeched) to ending it. Time for the crowbar –

"Fred wanted me to tell you about him, he asked me to describe him for you – said you'd see the light then."

"Quit Riley … you are **not** evil …. I _can't_ help you with what you want; you are not the Monster here."

Dean's voice had a pleading quality to it and some twisted ungrateful shred of my psyche – enjoyed hearing him squirm. Coldness swept over me and the lights began to flicker in the room. It was very close to the anesthetized feeling that settled over me on that night three and a half years ago. Part of me began to scream – howl and claw to escape, or maybe try to warn Dean something was wrong. I find myself moving off the bed and glance at the reflective tiles that pass for mirrors in these rooms. I don't even start at the change I see in my face. Dean may not want to believe what I am telling him, but it appeared that Fred – or whoever in Hell he was – was going to be quite hands on in illustrating my point. I knew that I was no longer in sole possession of the Captain hat any more – I regretted, distantly – what I knew ending my life would do to Dean. But I just wanted it all to go away – I was desperate enough to take **any** route offered. I had lost all I had to loose – what was this final burden of shame added to the mountain I had already racked up?

"You know Dean – I tell you that I have Demon blood in me – give you the green flag to do your job… practically stick my own head in the noose … and you are still having trouble pulling the trigger? What the hell kind of Hunter did your Daddy churn out?"

I don't turn to look at him yet but I can hear him move closer, his instincts are sharp – maybe something in the dead tone of my voice tipped him off? Who cares – what ever it takes to get the job done right?

"What are you playing at Riley? This is not necessary – Sam and I – we can find a way to break whatever it is that keeps you bound to this nightmare. We can save you."

My laugh is horrific – high taunting and dripping with contempt.

"What binds me to this Dean is the same thing that binds your brother …. Blood. Besides I have my Demon Daddy's eyes."

I turn. I smirk at him. He is beyond freaking out – he is staring at me like I have just grown a second head. He reaches for his gun without really realizing what he's doing. I smile to myself as he pulls the trigger his face a mask of pain – I guess the eyes have it?

As I feel the intense burn in my chest and the tearing sensation that I have been courting since the day I laid my entire family to rest – I sigh contentedly. Or maybe that's gasp of pain? It seems I was right all along. Though I am sorry to use Dean – it is the only way.

I know the difference between a Hawk and a Handsaw.

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Sam raced down the last turn in the dimly lit corridor. Institutions all picked the same colour scheme – boring, brain numbing beige. As the numbered doors flew past he finally saw the room Dean had given him. His older brother had insisted that this was just a babysitting gig – nothing complicated. He suggested that Sam get a head start on researching their next job. Dean was two hours overdue and dawn was right on their heels.

He stooped to begin working on the door lock when his cursory check through the narrow glass revealed nothing. This gig was a throwback from a hunt Dean had taken on when Sam was away at Stanford. Sam was a little curious. Dean theorized that this kid – Riley – had been possessed and had taken out his whole family. The Demon had been interrupted by Dean before it could end the whole Chapman family. For some reason Dean had not yet placed, the entity still had some link to Riley. It returned to torment him on the Anniversary of his Families massacre every year and convince him to attempt to kill himself. Sam believed the young man was just traumatized and it was more a case for the shrinks than for them – but Dean could not stand to loose anyone while there was the ghost of a chance to save them in the air.

The door gave suddenly and Sam fell forwards into the weakly lit room. He found himself eye to eye with his silent, still elder brother. For a moment it looked like the elder Winchester had fallen asleep with his eyes open. Then Sam heard the click of the pearl handled .45 as Dean took the safety off and replaced it again with another clicking noise. He was seated on the floor with his head resting against the far wall, his eyes transfixed on the bloody mess lying on the bed.

Sam closed the door hastily and held onto his gag reflex as he moved slowly towards his brother at a half crouch. Dean had not moved or reacted to his presence at all.

"Dean?" Sam's voice was calm and reassuring.

It elicited no response as Dean continued to play with the safety on his weapon.

Sam knelt directly in front of his sibling, blocking his view of the fallen man.

"Hey Dean, are you with me?"

Sam reached slowly for the weapon that was making him nervous in Dean's apparently unfocused grasp. This elicited an immediate and aggressive response. Dean brought the weapon to bear with deadly accuracy, level with Sam's head. Sam rocked back on his haunches with both hands raised sharply.

"Whoa – whoa … Dean it's me ok?"

Dean's eyes were limp jade pools – broken and defeated. They scared Sam more than the cold metal just inches from his face.

"What the hell happened Dean? Was it the Demon? Did it do something – to you?" Sam's voice was pleading and full of concern.

When Dean spoke his voice was as flat as his eyes. "I tried to save him Sammy."

He looked at his brother as if he was seeing through him. "The wind blew from the North and I could no longer tell the difference between a Hawk and a Handsaw.

Sam helped Dean up and practically piloted him back to the Impala. They passed the hunt on to Bobby. Dean actually let Sam turn down the job. But instead of the rest Sam suggested was long overdue his brother, the elder Winchester took himself to the roughest bar in town. When Sam scrapped him off the pavement in the early hours of the morning, he was spitting blood and teeth. Sam was certain that Dean was seeking penance for whatever he felt he did wrong with Riley Chapman. From what Sam knew – the cold hard factual version Dean shared; Chapman had finally succumbed to the Demon influence it turned out he was born with. Sam didn't see how Dean had any choice. But when he shared this with his brother he was horrified at the reaction. His brother literally folded in half on the gravel pavement, pulling Sam down with him as he continued to try to hold him up. He sobbed brokenly, covered in the light of the only working streetlamp in the bad part of town, and his brothers restraining arms.


End file.
